Couch Attack
by silvereyedbitch
Summary: John and Sherlock discover their relationship has changed a bit. Just a sweet evolving friendship turned lovers fic. Nothing explicit. Sorry! Warnings: a bit of fluff and M/M. JohnLock.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own these characters one bit. Just having some fun with the latest BBC version of Sherlock.

**Summary**: Takes place before the fall. Sherlock and John figure some things out about their evolving relationship. J/S.

**Couch Attack**

John sighed. The ceiling above him hadn't given him any more inspiration for getting out of bed now than it had the last few mornings. A kind of a funk had settled over him. Nameless, quiet, but there. Ever present. And with no discernable cause. It was absolutely frustrating to attempt to deal with something when there was nothing to grasp hold of. Every examination of his life lately had led to no better answers than perhaps he was just lonely. No, that wasn't it either. He dismissed the idea. How can one be lonely with the ever present ego and theatrics of Sherlock Holmes? He smiled to himself as he thought of the latest hilarity displayed by his brilliant, yet socially inept, friend.

Desiring to find out if car windows would shatter in a certain pattern so as to become a predictable point of reference in determining the angle at which objects collided with it, Sherlock had endeavored to drop small objects from the roof of their building onto passing cars. Perhaps this would have gone unpunished had he not then run down to the street where the cars would pull over and then ask the drivers to examine their windows. Lestrade was eventually sent over to at least give the appearance of punishing the guilty individual. The detective inspector was simply happy to actually pull an agreement of halting the experiment from the recalcitrant Holmes. However, this had only resulted in Sherlock then recruiting his homeless network into the experiment, sending photos to him of the havoc they created. In the end, more windows were cracked, and Sherlock had his answers.

John sighed again and then heaved out of bed, placing his feet on the floor by his slippers. He ran his hand back through his hair and shook his shoulders to loosen up his joints. He had awoken in a very cramped position. Sliding into his slippers, he grabbed his housecoat from where he had thrown it over the foot of the bed last night and pulled it on. He took a deep breath, telling himself to act normal. If Sherlock detected that he was feeling a bit off, then there would be no end to the questions and probing.

Leaving his room, he came down the stairs and through the door into the living space that they shared. Sherlock's back was to him, and he seemed very absorbed in writing down something on sheets of paper that were strewn about the desktop. Music composition, it seemed. There was no acknowledgement of John's presence, and so the doctor made his way into the kitchen and began a pot of coffee. He set out cups for two, though, in case the detective decided to rejoin the conscious world and interact with other people. God forbid.

Once finished, John poured himself a cup, black, and tottered still half-sleepily into the other room and toward the couch. He grabbed the paper off of the side table as he went, intending to use it to block Sherlock's view of his face in case he let slip his seeming depression…or whatever it was. He had to set down the cup and clear a space off of the couch, though, as it seemed to other man had nested there recently. _Probably slept here_, John thought to himself. Sherlock didn't seem to have any issues with sleeping in the strangest of places. One time, John had found him hanging halfway out of the window of their flat, snoring and holding onto a kind of plastic snake toy.

He glanced again at the tall, lanky figure of the man who had become his friend. His family. The pale, angular face was screwed into tight concentration as he feverishly scribbled down whatever it was that had captured his attention for the moment. It was so strange how he could be absolutely aware of everything, and then other times he was blissfully ignorant of anything going on around him at all. Sherlock had actually sat on him the other day and seemed surprised to find that his chosen seat had squirmed beneath him. He didn't apologize then, no. He merely looked at John curiously before promptly sitting on the floor before him instead, as if he simply couldn't be bothered to walk over to another spot.

Those times of mental absence from the waking world were a source of amusement to John mostly. Although, it could be quite frustrating to be speaking to the man and find minutes of conversation had been lost to an apparent visit to his so-called "mind palace." John chuckled quietly to himself. What an absolute nutter of a character his friend was. The almost silent laughter brought a slight turn of Sherlock's head, as if he had half-heard or remembered something; but then he was quickly resorbed into his scribblings. John faced down into the paper quickly, but his eyes stayed on the detective's profile, seeing if he would return to reality.

_I guess not_, John thought after a minute of nothing but the scratchings of a pen filling the air. His eyes panned down to the paper in front of him, trying to find something of interest so as to take his mind off of other things not so amusing to him right now. He had found a semi-interesting article about elections being held in a neighboring city when, suddenly, a weight fell on his lap that caused the air rush out of him.

Putting his paper to the side, John looked down at the other man, who had just come and lain directly across his lap. The slender detective seemed to not even notice he was quite thoroughly squishing his legs, and when John shifted a bit, there was no response from the impassive face of Sherlock Holmes. Truly, the other man seemed deep in his own realm at this time, and as John watched, the detective's hands would float up in front of himself every now and again as if swatting and moving things only he could see. _Stupid mind palace_, the doctor grumbled internally. This particular situation had happened once before as well, and it had resulted in the good doctor giving up his comfortable morning spot. Well, two could play at this game.

Tired of being sat on, laid on, and generally treated like an inanimate object, Dr. John Watson decided to make a stand, so to speak. After all, if he continued to allow this behavior, it would obviously never change. And he figured when Sherlock finally "woke up" from his mental exercises, then the other man would probably be so embarrassed that it would never happen again. Ha! Check mate. He pulled his paper back over, picked up his cup, and he sipped and read as if nothing in the world was odd about having a grown man sprawled in a daze across his lap.

Perhaps twenty minutes passed, and John was getting impatient. He had momentarily forgotten that Sherlock could, at times, stay retreated within his own mind for hours at a time. What if today was one of those stints? He shifted his leg from underneath its bony burden. _Hmmmm_. He let the top of the paper fall back a bit so he could look into the detective's face, trying to judge from its exterior how much longer he might be required to suffer this indignity. And he failed. There was just no reading that man's expressions, or lack thereof. _Great_.

He continued looking, though, and found his mind wandering a bit. Pale, smooth skin drawn artfully over those angular features. Lips, half parted in thought. The brow, furrowed as thoughts and memories flooded through his fiery synapses. And the eyes…the eyes…clear blue windows into the soul of the greatest man John had ever known. Looking down at him now, able to observe him this closely without the other man even being aware of it, was nice. _Nice_? Well, maybe that wasn't exactly the word John was searching for. Maybe interesting? No. Strange how lost for words he became when it involved this man before him. But like reading the detective, even interpreting himself had become a chore lately.

So, not nice, not interesting… What was it? As he gazed down into the face of Sherlock Holmes, he felt as if he was viewing something precious and secret from the rest of the world. Something no one else could ever see. It was his special moment in time right now. _He's quite good looking_, actually, floated through his mind unbidden. John's eyes snapped up at that thought, shattering the experience he had been having but moments before. He thought quickly on the last thought that had just left his mind. Good looking? Well, yes, of course he was. Not that John himself was _looking_ for that kind of thing. It was just another facet to Sherlock Holmes that was noticeable for any who might be looking. Right? Right. That was it. He was just analyzing things, data, the way the detective himself did it. He shouldn't be upset that he had simply noticed that the other happened to be handsome. It was like telling your sister that she looked lovely on her wedding day. An acknowledgement of facts. That was it.

He took a breath and glanced back down at the now closed eyes. He seemed so relaxed there. Maybe he had fallen asleep? So relaxed, so unburdened, so…beautiful. _What_?! John's mind snapped at that, and he fought his way out from under the other man, which elicited a grunt and eye opening, but still no recognition. He got up and turned to look down at the man, still sprawled across the couch, but now with one leg having been pulled to the floor with his quick exit. _Great. Well, then. I guess I'll go out and clear my head. I've obviously been sitting still for far too long_. He dressed quickly and grabbed his coat from beside the door. He turned to face Sherlock to inform him of his intentions of going out, but one look told him to not bother. The other man was still oblivious. With an irritated noise, he headed down the stairs and out the door.

The next morning, John repeated his actions of spurring himself to get up, making coffee, and grabbing a magazine to flop onto the couch with. Sherlock had not yet risen, which was fine with the doctor, as he was loathe to have a repeat of the weirdness of yesterday. He wiggled into the window-side corner of the couch, kicked one leg up onto it with him, and the other hung down with foot to the floor. Quiet resonated throughout the flat as he perused the stories presented as truth within the magazine he held.

Some few minutes later, he heard the familiar bump and shuffle of the other man rising from bed. Sherlock's door banged open, and the detective moved through the space, past John, and to the window. John watched out of the corner of his eyes as the other man pressed his forehead to the window pane and stared out into the gray morning light. It was supposed to rain hard today, so probably no going out. The doctor stopped his secret observations after a moment and continued on with his reading, as it seemed the detective was intent on studying…whatever it was that had captured his attention for the moment.

John turned the page of his magazine and then let out a loud "Oomph!" as the weight of the detective fell once again across his lap. "What the bloody hell?!" he managed to squeeze out, staring daggers at the man who now reclined so peacefully upon his legs. Sherlock lay in repose, with hands clasped across his breast, eyes closed. One eyelid slid lazily open at the exclamation, with the pupil focusing in on John's flustered expression, but it closed shortly thereafter. _That's it_, John thought to himself. _I'm not going to put up with this, I'll sit here all damn day if I have to, just prove this bloody point_!

And so he sat, at first with arms crossed over his chest, anger stirring within him. Righteous indignation made him despise even having to shift his legs around to free up the circulation, but he did occasionally. And still the detective seemed unaware of his presence after almost two hours of this. The coffee was stone cold now. The magazine held nothing of interest to begin with. The remote was out of reach. But still he sat, determined to make his stand with this couch.

After the two hour point, John found his mind again wandering over his recent moodiness lately. His…loneliness; or whatever this feeling was. And then he came to a kind of realization, _I haven't really felt __**lonely**_. This seemed a stupid thing to say to himself, and so he clarified in his own mind, _Actually_, _I think it's the __**absence**__ of loneliness that's getting to me_. But that seemed strange, too. And he turned this thought over and over in his head, examining it from all angles as he imagined his reclined friend would have.

He hadn't been on a date or anything of the like in almost eight months. He had often sought after women, though they continually dismissed him shortly after meeting Sherlock, to soothe a kind of emptiness he felt within his heart. He was about middle aged now, and felt the strong need for companionship. But it seemed forever out of his reach. Lately, though, that feeling had disappeared, which was probably why he was feeling quite oddly. He had lived with that feeling for so long that its absence was almost like a friend's passing. It was as if he were in mourning of his lost aloneness. _God, I'm getting strange_, he thought. And then, glancing down at his oblivious friend on his lap, he added, _Must be the company I keep_.

And as he looked down at Sherlock, he realized that it actually _was_ the company he kept that was keeping those feelings at bay. He felt a strange closeness between them that hadn't been there a few months ago, as if they were evolving into something else. But what? Certainly they were more comfortable around each other, and John was able to easily overlook the things that would make other people find living with the detective unbearable. But there was something more to it now than a simple case of being "comfortable." There was a warmth within his heart when he found himself looking at Sherlock lately that was different than before. And maybe also a sense of needing the other man… _Need_?_ Sherlock_?! he thought with shock and a bit of incredulity. But there it was. And all the false bravado and denial he could muster couldn't put the idea to rest. And once that idea had settled firmly in his mind, he thought, somewhat despondently, _Does he need me, just the same_?_ Is this something he has noticed, too_?

And at the thought of Sherlock actually _not_ noticing something, John chided himself, _Surely he will have figured this out already_? But then again, he gazed down fondly at his friend's face, Sherlock was so patently ignorant about emotional ties and human interaction that it just may have slipped by him. John watched as the detective's hands made absent motions through the air in front of his face, rearranging things in his mind that only he could visualize. Then, suddenly, or at least it seemed so to John, Sherlock's left arm ceased its musings and fell against him, draping itself against his shoulder with the long artistic fingers dangling gently upon the side of the doctor's neck. The right arm continued its activities.

A kind of a chill ran through John's chest. _What the hell_?! And he froze, feeling the other man's arm against him like a heated weight. Gravity seemed too strong all of a sudden. He felt somewhat lightheaded. Not daring to move, barely breathing, he set aside the magazine and sat with his hands clasped against his chest. There was nowhere else to put them that wouldn't be on the other man. But suddenly, that seemed a very tempting action. He mulled it over in his head for several minutes, going through various scenarios and excuses in his own mind. Finally, he settled on one.

_I'm just going to move his hair a bit; wake him up on "accident," so I can hurry up and get this day moving along_. And so he reached with his right hand down onto the detective's temple, where a stray curl had found itself. He lightly brushed it aside. But his hand stayed there, at the edge of the other man's hairline, hovering, trembling slightly. And he lightly stroked a finger through the outer periphery of dark waves, feeling the softness of it. And again that chill, which was actually more of an excited tingle, ran through him. His hair stood on end, and his heart beat faster. Still no reaction from Sherlock. _Maybe once more then_, he thought as he reached again, this time further into the hair.

Oh, that feeling! What was that? Whatever it was, John wanted it to continue, but even so, he was afraid of what it portended. And at the zenith of his hand's trail through that dark mop of waves and curls, his heart stopped. Sherlock's piercing blue eyes were open and held his in lockdown. John's heart hammered beneath his ribs, his vocal cords paralyzed, his hand…_shit_! It was still in the other man's hair! Completely freaking out, he stood abruptly, spilling the detective onto the floor, and he rushed over to grab his coat shouting out behind him, "I'll just be out for a while. I'll get the milk on my way back. Call if you need anything." But before he made it to the stairs, there was a hand on his shoulder, and a soft but insistent voice saying, "John. Wait."

John turned to find himself staring into those liquid pools of light sapphire, and his heart hurt. It _hurt_. "I've just…got to…I'll be back…later…" he attempted as he twisted and disentangled himself from the grip of the other man. Sherlock's face was strange. Curiosity mixed with something else. Concern? Sympathy? Surely not. And so he continued on out of the flat and into London, into rain, determined to stay away for a while until he could sort out his feelings.

John returned to the flat later that night, pleased with the length of time he had managed to stay out. And after placing the milk and eggs in the fridge, he placed the nonperishables on the counter and peered into the living area. Silent. Empty. He looked down towards the detective's doorway. There was no light underneath. _Guess he went to bed early then,_ he thought. Which was unusual. It was only 1030, and Sherlock was generally up until at least 1 or 2. _All for the better if I don't have to face him right now._ For John Watson had delved deep within himself all day long for an answer to his troubles. And he had found one. It had been there for a good while, but he had kept it buried within, almost undetectable. But now... He was in love. Ha! In love with someone who was supposedly incapable of returning it. _Unrequited love; perfect,_ he thought moodily. _I finally figure out my issue, and it has no solution._ Even Moriarty couldn't find a way to hurt him more than this.

He set his coat down across the back of his armchair and climbed the stairs to his room. _Maybe a good sleep will give me a new perspective on things tomorrow_. He didn't even bother to undress, simply kicking off his shoes and falling into bed. He hoped his mind would shut up so he could rest, though, because the last few nights had been horrible. And like a wish come true, sleep actually fell over him with little difficulty this night; and soon he was lost to the waking world.

He came half-awake on his left side during the early morning hours. The clock by his bed looked to say about 3am. He was about to roll over when he heard something in his room. He froze. _Someone's here_! He endeavored to resume sleep-like breathing so as not to alert the person to his conscious state. He strained to hear them moving around, trying to gauge their location. So far, they had remained still, as if waiting…or thinking.

Then, soft at first, he felt pressure on the other side of his bed, as if someone had placed a knee down and was awaiting his reaction. He gave none, preferring them to think him oblivious. And then more weight was added onto the mattress, causing it to creak and groan. The person stilled again. _Most of their body must be on the bed with me by now_, John thought. But who would get on the bed? If they were there to harm him, why not just creep around on the floor, which was a much more effective method of sneaking? They must not be too concerned with sneaking up on him then, and that meant that they most likely weren't there with evil intent. But who could it be? _Who…__**Oh**_! And his brain shut down as he considered the only logical possibility. And at that very moment, the other person seemed to have come to some sort of conclusion as well, because they lay down quickly behind him.

So close he could feel the other's body heat, but still not close enough that they touched, John Watson lay on his left side with Sherlock Holmes at his back, wondering what in the hell he should do with this information. How should it be interpreted? Does this mean the other man is drunk? Is he high? Is he just in one of his dazed mental fugues? Or was it more meaningful? Did he notice John the way John was noticing him? It was too much to think about for the poor, stressed doctor. _Perhaps he's just teasing me, then? Playing one of his little games to see how much or what kind of a reaction he'll get out of me? Hmph. We'll see about that_.

John rolled slightly onto his back, not all the way, but just enough so he could gain a better perspective of the lay of the room. And there he was, Sherlock, lying on his back facing the ceiling. John couldn't tell in the dark if the other man's eyes were open or not, though. He steadied his breathing, making ready to go for it full out, and he turned onto his back, bringing his right leg and hip up against the detective's own. And Sherlock's head turned toward him with a flick. In the dark of the bedroom, only a thin filtering of light entered through a window, making it impossible to tell for sure, but John thought there might have been a smile in place. Just for second. There and gone. Maybe.

They stayed like that for perhaps a half hour before John made his next attempt to elicit a response. It seemed the other was quite content to just lie there, and John was getting fairly thin on patience for this. He brought his right hand, which had previously been across his stomach, down by his side, where his fingers then brushed Sherlock's. Nothing. Well, at least, there seemed to be no reaction initially, but then…

Long, elegant fingers curled around his own, and a warm, lean body rolled into his side, an arm snaking across his chest and coming to rest in an embrace that almost made him faint with surprise and relief simultaneously. And lastly, that face, his friend's face, came to rest just beside his own. And those eyes were definitely open now as they practically commanded his own to face them. And John obeyed, turning his head so as to look directly at the source of all his confusion and angst lately. He opened his mouth to say something, thinking maybe he ought to, but was surprised yet again when he found his lips covered by the detective's own. Warm and smooth, they connected to his, and the tingle he felt earlier became a bonfire of heat within his chest. He reached out and wrapped his arm around Sherlock, and they freed their other hands from each other in order to pull closer. The kiss was chaste, as far as kisses go, with barely parted lips and no more than that. It lasted for what seemed forever, though, as they were crushed against each other. And it was right. So right. John felt he had finally found what was missing. He only felt sorry he had overlooked it all this time.

When they finally broke free from each other, Sherlock pulled back, eyes searching John's as though seeking approval from an instructor. It was sweet, really, how he was completely inept in this area, whereas John was the experienced one for once. John smiled back at him, causing a reactive upward twitch of the side of the detective's mouth. And again, before John could get a word out, Sherlock took control of the situation, saying, "John, you are a superbly classical example of what it is to be an idiot." Well, that took quite a bit of wind from his sails and from the moment itself, and so John replied, "Eh, what?!" Then he cursed himself as it sounded just like what an idiot would ask. Sherlock gave a half smile, pulling the doctor closer. "I have been attempting this for some time now, and you never seem to have picked up on any of the evidence I left for you."

John was flabbergasted. _He's been trying __**for some time now**_? Seeing the look of incomprehension on his friend's face, Sherlock continued, "You don't really think I'd sit on you, do you?" Again, the expression on John's face told him all. He sighed. "I suppose it's like how a cat both vies for your attention and at the same time spurns it. You end up wondering if the cat ever wanted your attention in the first place. I assumed this tactic seeing as how you were still seemingly either unaware or conflicted about your feelings. But I couldn't be sure, and so I approached in a manner that could easily be written off as nothing if you showed no interest whatsoever. Naturally, you proved to be ignorant of my actions, as usual, and so I proceeded with the couch attack." John's mind was swimming as he asked, stupidly once more, "Couch attack?" "Yes, John," Sherlock said as if to a child, "A more direct approach was necessary to elicit a reaction from you since you were obviously too stupid to comprehend the meanings behind my previous attempts."

Still feeling overwhelmed, out of his element, but with a hint of growing annoyance, John asked weakly, "Previous attempts?" Sherlock sighed loudly in exasperation, pulling back some, "Yes! Yes! Didn't you see?! Didn't you _notice_?! John, really, how did you ever make it through a school of medicine and come out with-…" A hand slapped over the detective's mouth, and John looked into Sherlock's eyes. "I liked it better when you were quiet. So shut up, you idiot." And with that, he removed his hand, pulled the other to him, and kissed him again.


End file.
